The fact that all the people I know are better writers than me often keeps me from putting ideas to page. I have a tender little underbelly that was first scraped up by Professor Sweet, creative writing expert. But it’s been, like, 17 years, so maybe I should just move on. Here goes.

I was a part of this really interesting endeavor called Hutchmoot in Nashville. It was billed as a conference on writing, music, art, and God but I knew as soon as I walked in that it was more. Before I talk about how much more it was, I want to give a reference point for the lens through which I write.

I have been in a desert following a pillar of fire for about three years. I live in a neighborhood that scares most people like me, including me. There is ugliness. There is poverty and helplessness and crime and a lot of yelling. Of course, there is brokenness everywhere in everyone, because that is the way the world looks until Jesus makes all things new. But my house is planted in a bleaker landscape. The secrets that people keep, the lies and numbing and faking that I see at work, in the grocery store or at church are much less sophisticated in front of my house. Instead of the superego taming a pained person to put on a brave face, I see the id from my front porch. I see the hurting. It is exposed. It is explosive. And it elicits a sense of helplessness in me like I have never known.

I struggle with the concept of the “calling” of God to do things. But the burden on my heart to live in this place was unmistakable; this place that needs caring for in a very practical way, like cleaning up spoons that were used to cook up crack from front yards. The fancy term is neighborhood revitalization. The truth: I am struggling to find my own vital signs in this place. I came home to find my kitchen window smashed one time. A lockbox was taken that was assumed to have drugs and money in it. Instead, it contained ultrasound pictures of my daughter. I was sitting on the porch and heard gun shots ring out one street over. The shooter ran past me and looked into my eyes with a depth that even some of my friends do not. It has broken me to live here.

So in this broken state, feeling like I could not leave fast enough, I boarded a plane for Nashville. I prayed that God would bring me back to life. I asked for a way to understand the three years in the desert.

Walking into the church where the conference was held, I was absorbed like a droplet of water into the sea. But I was still me and they were still them and the sea was not chaos, but comfort. I was in a safe place. I wasn’t alone and I didn’t have to be strong. I listened to people tell the old, old story and sing about the pain of us all and peace that is coming where He will wipe away every tear. I was given a moment of what will be eternity; a celebration of all that God has created. He has created creators with hearts to tell stories to give meaning to others too weak to imagine for themselves.

I am home. And while my time on this street has been short, I can clean up this neighborhood in what little time I have left. I can plant trees and I can teach people to garden and I can paint buildings. But closer to the heart of what it means to revitalize, I can tell stories. With words, I can shape a context for those roaming this bleak landscape. God comforted me with story. I will care as I have been cared for.

My prayers will always be with the storytellers who stay behind when we’ve moved on.

The thing about Michael Spencer is that you so often found your own theological thoughts and struggles in his words, even when you disagreed. When you’re wrestling with theological issues, it’s good to find your thoughts in other people’s words – especially the ones you can’t find words for.

The loss of Michael means the loss of one of those voices, and I’m of the opinion that I’m going to need to rediscover my own voice as a result. (That’s probably something I shouldn’t have lost anyway.) There are so many issues in my head that I’m trying to get a handle on right now. Just to name a few: politics, gender roles, the evangelical circus, Hell and universalism, mainline denominations, theology and worship practice. I’d like to begin working through these and others again here while trying to find Jesus in all of it.

I’ve tried many times before to get my writing going here again. I hope this one sticks. (Not making any promises, for the record.)

I rarely have time for this blog anymore, though at one point, I was writing quality enough material here that Michael Spencer put me in his blogroll. And he’s why I write here again tonight.

More than that, he’s one of the reasons I write in the first place. Five or six years ago when I started writing, I discovered Internet Monk and the Boar’s Head Tavern. The BHT looked like a blast to me, so I sent Michael a bit about myself and this writing sample, and I was let in. I’ve been then on and off over the past five years, probably most active whenever a discussion on race got going (Michael and I tended to disagree on a few fundamentals there).

Now, I know the BHT isn’t a blog of professional writers, but something about Michael’s willingness to have me write for the site made me think that I could do well as a writer. I’ve since gone on to publish books, and I’m honored to have been asked to write an essay for a tribute book for Michael.

Sadly, he’ll never read it, as he died of cancer tonight. I can’t quite handle it. I didn’t think it was possible to cry this much about someone you’d never met in person. (We tried to make arrangements to do so twice, but both fell through … I regret deeply not trying harder, now.) I made one attempt to distract myself by picking up a book that has commanded my attention for the past two days, a few paragraphs in, I was in tears again.

Michael will be greatly missed. It’s been a while since the fallenness of the world and a desire for it all to be healed has gripped me quite this strongly. To adapt Bebo Norman just a little:

It was not his time
That’s a useless lie
A fallen world took his life

My prayers are with the Spencers tonight, but they are little more than “help,” and “When will this all finally end?”

I think my dog Moses just had his first experience chewing tobacco.

I was trying to put together thoughts for a lecture I’m giving on Harry Potter in a couple of days at the Barrett Honors College at Arizona State University, and I decided to go outside, smoke a cigar (Oliva Serie V), and hope to catch a few earlier Leonid meteors from the limited view I have on the front porch of my house here in the city. No such luck with meteors, but several ideas for Friday’s talk came to mind.

Moses was sitting with me on the porch, and about halfway through my cigar, I heard him chewing on something. It was dark, but I’m pretty sure it was the end of the cigar that I’d snipped off.

It’s been almost a decade since the last time I waited up for meteors. I’m thinking about what would have happened if a soothsayer had approached me at that time and said, “A decade from now, you’ll be smoking a cigar and watching this same meteor shower from the front porch of your city street.” I’d have shouted “False prophet!” I’m sure.

Here’s the deceptive thing about the Fallen human condition. I’m no longer the legalist I was then. But the pride that serves as a foundation for legalism doesn’t go away when the pharisaical rules are stripped away. Instead, I can be proud that I’m smoking and drinking and cussing, and thanking God I’m not like those Pharisees, who think they’ll be accepted for their rule keeping. And so, paradoxically, I’m being just like the Pharisee in my quest not to be like the Pharisee.

What was Jeremiah saying about the deceitfulness of the heart?

Moses – the OT one, not my dog – is an interesting character. A decade ago, under that meteor shower in my parents’ backyard, if you’d asked me about Moses, I’d have told you all about how he’s an example of what might happen if you sin. Well sure, he’s that. He got all the way to the Promised Land, and then botched it with anger and disobedience. The funny thing about the New Testament, though, is that when it retells the story of Moses, it doesn’t mention that incident. It seems like that’s a pretty defining incident in Moses’ life, but that’s not how the NT talks about Moses.

Grace is a pretty radical thing, and it tears down our pride, whether that pride is a foundation for our moralism or our celebration of liberty from legalism. At the end of Moses’ life, despite all the lessons he’d learned, he screwed up, and he’s accepted and loved. At the end of my life, having traded legalism most likely for other, more subtle forms of prideful behavior, I’ll probably screw up like Moses did. I’ll be accepted, too. That, and only that, is the antidote for pride and the prescription for humility.

Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Just don’t be prideful about it. We need grace every bit as much as the Pharisee.

If your theology causes you to think you’ve got it all wrapped up and well-understood, it’s bad theology.  Theology should produce wonder.  Not that theology should be hard to understand, abstract, unclear, or embrace a false humility that claims we can’t possibly know anything.  Theology is as clear and easy to understand as sheep, water, bread, fig trees, and vineyards.

And it produces wonder.

The fact that we don’t think these things are filled with wonder demonstrates just how far we have gotten off the path of the truth. G.K. Chesterton wrote,

Just as we all like love tales because there is an instinct of sex, we all like astonishing tales because they touch the nerve of the ancient instinct of astonishment. This is proved by the fact that when we are very young children we do not need fairy tales: we only need tales. Mere life is interesting enough. A child of seven is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door and saw a dragon. But a child of three is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door. Boys like romantic tales; but babies like realistic tales — because they find them romantic. In fact, a baby is about the only person, I should think, to whom a modern realistic novel could be read without boring him. This proves that even nursery tales only echo an almost pre-natal leap of interest and amazement. (Orthodoxy, Chapter IV)

True, when we grow old we are to “put away childish things,” but sinners have a tendency to mis-understand what is childish and what is not.  Paradoxically, we fallen people are described well in Rich Mullin’s song, “Growing Young” – “We are children no more, we have sinned and grown old.”

Or, as Chesterton wrote,

Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

We grow old, lose our wonder, and become theologians who have it all figured out.

This is one of the many concepts that draws me to the importance of rootedness in place; and, conversely, rootedness in place teaches me these concepts.  Fighting weeds while trying to restore a backyard that’s suffered 15 years of neglect puts me in a place and makes me have to do one of two things: get bitter that I don’t have more time for sitting in front of a computer debating theology with people dumber than me, or find the wonder in creation, consider the tragedy of the fall, and find even greater wonder in redemption.

Most people are bored with the monotony of one place, and we’ve become very transient people.  I’ve written about this before.  I think that boredom is a weakness which plagues us, and I’m fighting hard against it.  I wrote recently at The Rabbit Room,

Lately, I’ve been trying to gather the strength to “do it again” as many times as Sophia requests it, and I’ve been trying to summon the wisdom to find joy in the repetition.

It is much more often foolishness, not wisdom, that makes people want to move away from family and community for ideas of finding a “better life.”  We’re bored with the monotony.  We’re thinking we’re better than this place.  We’re weak. We’ve sinned and grown old.

Theology and place – they’re interconnected and full of wonder.

As I write this, I’m drinking a Lake Placid Ubu Ale.  It’s an English strong ale “named for a legendary chocolate lab” (I’d give it a B+ by the way; you local Rochesterians can buy it at Wegmans).  You probably remember the TV production company.  “Sit, Ubu, sit.  Good dog.”

Next to me lies a black lab.  Actually, German Shepherd/Lab, but mostly German Shepherd.  But still lab.  Which brings me back to Ubu Ale, which is really good.

Which brings me back to the original point of this post, which was to write about how I can’t write about the stuff I was going to write.

Because the dog ate my blog.  Not the legendary chocolate lab.  The Lab/Shepherd mutt lying by my bed.

Earlier today, I was outside with Sophia (my daughter), Kaylynn (her friend), and Moses (the dog), reading Eugene Peterson’s fantastic book, Christ Plays in 10,000 Places.  It’s a rich book, and every time I sit down to take in a few pages, I’m spurred on towards lots of really great thoughts I never would have had otherwise.  I recently decided to start carrying my Moleskine journal around with me again, especially when I’m reading, because great thoughts stay with me for approxiately 11 seconds before I’m thinking about chicken wings or the Sabres’ disappointing season.  Not that chicken wings aren’t a great thought. The Sabres’ season, however, is not a great thought.  But chicken wings are.

And so is Eugene Peterson’s writing.  So I jotted down some notes while I was reading, and even wrote out an entire paragraph which I planned to expand in a blog post this evening.  Then I left the book and journal in the chair outside.

With the dog.

After dinner, Tricia discovered the disaster.  My journal was eaten.  Peterson’s book must not have tasted very good, because it was thankfully left in tact.  Lord knows what would have happened had it been this Eugene Peterson book. (Do take the time to click that link, and notice also the quoted line just underneath the title.)

I tried tonight to re-write that paragraph from memory, but it came out all clunky and unclear.  The dog is sleeping well on a full stomach of Moleskine journal, and I’m hoping that after eating my blogging plans, he’ll at least spend a full night’s rest without throwing them up.

Two days ago, I took the IBHRE Certification Exam for Competency in Cardiac Electrophysiology for the Allied Professional.  I know.  You’re already asleep.

It’s a required test for my current day job: Lead Clinical Technologist at the University of Rochester Medical Center Electrophysiology Lab.

Wake up.

The exam was evil.  I’ve always been a really good test taker.  I’m the kind of person who walks out of an exam saying, “I knew I blew a few questions and guessed on others, and I’m mad because I’ll probably be lucky to get a B.”  And then I get an A.  People hate test-takers like me.  I hate test-takers like me.  If you’re a Harry Potter fan – this is the only imaginable area in which I’m anything at all like Hermione Granger.  Only I don’t study and still get the A.

Except for this exam, for which I studied for almost 6 months.  I’ve never, in all my years of taking tests, walked out of an exam saying, “I think I failed that.”  Never.  Until two days ago.

Examinations are really quite evil.  They hardly test knowledge – especially multiple choice.  This was a 5-hour exam comprised of 200 multiple choice questions.  I’d rather have sat down on Wednesday with one question for 5 hours: “Tell me everything you know about electrophysiology.”  Then someone could grade what I actually know.  Two hundred intentionally tricky multiple choice questions with ECGs and EGMs that were difficult to read on test-taking software that belongs in 1987 covering an impossibly broad area of knowledge is not a good way to find out what I really know.

I’ve just finished my second Master’s degree.  Neither Master’s degree that I hold tested knowledge with written examinations.  Papers and portfolios were the methods of evaluation for both of those degrees, and I learned more from both of them thanalmost anything in undergrad.  Despite being a good test-taker, I’ve come to disbelieve in the value of these sorts of exams.

I could complain about Wednesday’s test – and did so in the post-test survey – for a long time.  But instead, I’ll make a loose analogy to life to attempt to put some actual meaning into this post.  An exam like the one I just took is in many ways like the unpredictability of evil.  (No really … wait for it.)  You can make all the right preparations in life and still run into a completely unexpected tragedy or turn of events that destroys 6 months – or 6 decades – of preparation.

So there. I’ve proved it. Exams are evil.

And I’m all signed up for the IBHRE Certification Exam for Compentency in Cardiac Rhythm Device Therapy for the Allied Professional in September.  You can stay asleep now.

Because I haven’t directly plugged it here yet:

You can pre-order my book, Harry Potter & Imagination: The Way Between Two Worlds!

Click here for description and table of contents.

Click here for a short podcast on the book.

I spoke at another Harry Potter conference this past weekend, and here are some photos.